


Happy Days

by awkwardsorta



Series: Torres and Mata's Nursery [4]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: East End Stories, Gen, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsorta/pseuds/awkwardsorta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They get married, I got nothing, sorry. In-jokes galore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Days

**Author's Note:**

> For Lorna. Written in the spirit of [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8d89QFJk85Q) and [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K4JNXbY0ENg) and aaallll the west ham advent calendar videos.

They have a Christmas wedding. Like any other year in England it has been a mild, wet December, low, gloomy cloud and the only snow to be seen is on Christmas cards, and big paper snowflakes that the children make at the nursery. They stick them on the windows and pretend it’s a white Christmas.

Honey starts at school in September and Ricardo misses her around the nursery, but there are plenty more children to keep an eye on. Matty’s youngest is in now, and he drops her off one Tuesday morning early in the month and then pulls Ricardo aside. 

“Alright Matty?” Matty’s beaming and Ricardo returns his smile in full force. “Yes mate, so, I’m sure you already know, but Mark’s asked me to be best man.”

Ricardo claps him on the shoulder. “I know,” he says. “Matty I am really happy. You are the right one. But watch out because my best man is my sisters so you have a lot to stand up against.”

Matty laughs. “I bet,” he says. “Okay well let me know as always if there’s anything I can do.”

He blows a kiss to his little girl and then backs out the door with a wave to Ricardo. “Bye bye Matty,” Ricardo calls, and turns to a small child tugging at his trouser leg. “And what is up with you little man?”

 

The venue is booked, the papers filed, the invitations sent, the suits picked up and the taxis booked (“I’m not walking down the Barking Road in a tux.”). West Ham are playing Chelsea away on Boxing Day and a day later Mark is getting married. He is preoccupied by the thought of nicking a point at Stamford Bridge and barely thinks of the ceremony; only once the final whistle has blown and they’ve clapped the last player off the pitch, jeered their last jeer at Chelsea, and started to file out of the ground, does it hit Mark.

“Oh sh-” 

Matty looks round at Mark who has stopped in his tracks. He is barged gently from behind by other fans waiting to leave, and carries on on autopilot. “What? You left something?”

Mark picks Honey up out of the milling scrum and says, “No, I just realised I’m getting married tomorrow.” A few heads turn at that and a couple of people give him understanding smiles. Matty just laughs at him. “Too right mate. Don’t worry, we’re going to get a few pints down you.”

 

Like any other morning Mark wakes up at seven, gets Honey up and dressed, makes them both breakfast. Ricardo isn’t there though, and for a brief time when Mark is sitting at the table, tea in hand, watching Honey eat her Ready Brek, it is as though the past four years never happened. “I used to have to feed you that,” Mark remarks to Honey, nodding at her bowl.

Honey had been a mucky child, still was on occasion although going to school had improved it. She used to come home from nursery with food stains covering her clothes until Ricardo, at his wits end, suggested to Mark that he send her with a change of clothes. Mark worked harder on teaching her to eat sensibly after that.

Ricardo’s jacket is hanging over the back of Honey’s chair now, and his handwriting is on the blackboard by the back door that reminds them which day is bin day and to wipe your feet when you come in. He wasn’t there when Mark went to bed last night or when he woke up that morning, insistent on them not seeing each other before the ceremony, and even for those few hours Mark misses him.

Honey finishes her breakfast and Mark’s cup of tea is lukewarm, so he shakes himself out of the reverie and chivies them both out of the kitchen. Honey can reach to put her dishes on the counter now but not to wash them, so she is sent to the lounge to play and Mark to the bathroom to get ready.

 

“Matty, I can’t do it.”

Matty stands in front of an ashen-faced Mark and bats his hands away from the now-limp rag that is Mark’s tie. “How do you not know how to tie a tie?”

Mark works on a factory floor, coordinating teams of people and machinery and crates and vans, he doesn’t know which part of that sounds to Matty like it involves tie-wearing. The last time he wore a tie was to his grandmother’s funeral eight years ago.

Matty fixes his mess and puts his hands on Mark’s shoulders. He’s smiling at Mark but he looks a little like he might cry. 

“Don’t you start,” Mark says, stepping aside to see his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He is in a dark grey morning suit, a claret tie and a matching flower in his buttonhole (Mark doesn’t know what kind of flower it is; Matty and Honey picked it out at the hire place). His nose is a funny shape, he never knows what to do with his hair, and he can’t tie his own tie, but he thinks he’ll do.

 

Ricardo is waiting on the steps of the old town hall when Mark arrives, every line and fold of his suit perfect, a white flower in his buttonhole and a soft grey cravat. Mark lifts Honey out of her seat and Matty follows after. The three steps up to Ricardo seem endless, and Mark suddenly feels overwhelmed and stops before he can get there. Ricardo takes them down to him instead and stops right in front of him. Mark smiles and Ricardo smiles back. “Don’t cry on your wedding day,” he says, and puts a hand to Mark’s cheek. Mark is laughing, his eyes wet. “Shut up,” he says. “I’m not crying.”

The three of them assure him that he is and Mark tells them all in no uncertain terms to have some respect. 

They walk in together, with Ricardo’s sisters holding Honey’s hands, to a hall lit up with chandeliers and huge bouquets of white and deep red, fronds of delphiniums adding a touch of blue. All their friends are there, from their work and the football, their neighbours and Mark’s friends from school. Ricardo’s family have come from Portugal and they are mixed in with Mark’s on the front row. 

Mark takes Ricardo’s hand and squeezes it tight.

 

There is a party afterwards in the hall, the chairs pushed back and a dance floor cleared, and although Mark insists that he doesn’t dance, Ricardo drags him up for one round to Mariah Carey. Beer and wine flow freely and the room grows increasingly raucous. Honey is dancing with Juan by standing on his feet and when they are done he brings her over. 

“Congratulations,” he says, beaming at them both. Ricardo hugs him and Juan shakes Mark’s hand. “So happy for you both,” he says. 

“Well it was down to you,” Mark says. “Thanks for giving this dunce a job.” Ricardo protests through a smile and Juan starts laughing. 

Fernando joins them and there are more hugs all round. “This place is amazing,” Fernando says, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. “It’s proper nice innit,” Ricardo says. “We were lucky some people cancelled so we got ahead of the waiting list.”

“Thank you for the flowers,” Mark says. “Both of you, we really appreciate that.”

Fernando smiles. “Well,” he says, “I mean I wanted a real red but Juan insisted we go for this dark colour.” Mark laughs. “Fuck off with your real red,” he says. “And I think you’ll find this is a claret.”

 

Mark finds Ricardo collapsed in a corner near the end of the night, Honey asleep on his lap, talking quietly in Spanish to Vero. They look up as he approaches and Ricardo smiles sleepily up at him. “Mind if I borrow my husband?” Mark says, and Ricardo’s smile gets wider.

“Your husband,” he says, as they walk away together. He shifts Honey up onto his hip and lets her head stay sleeping on his shoulder. “Yeah,” Mark smiles, and slips his hand in Ricardo’s pocket. “Want to take off? Your husband has a taxi waiting outside and we both have a very tired little girl to put to bed.”

“Definitely,” Ricardo says, and leans in for a kiss. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Postscript that I couldn’t fit in anywhere: the boys from Mark’s work club together and sort out a box at Upton Park on New Year’s Day. West Ham romp to victory against Spurs 3-0.)


End file.
